And pressed
back by the welts in his palms,ragtag red
lions raised on his skin.

But lamented
his suffering aloud to the Lord,who hears the
human body as an instrument.

The dried
blood, tangle in the thatch of beard,matted like sap
above cuts in the lush garden of chest.

The trembling
at mouth's edge, the weak-knees,the weak-lung,
neck-droop, the voice and knell.

Would not have
sung louder wearing thorns.Would not have
sung louder in limp robes.

How colossal
the error. How dire. How divinea breath, a
breath, a breath, a breath.

Actaeon

Cursed
early, at Chiron’s cave,taught
to hunt by a half-breedbetraying
the better half, slaveto
the human part atop the steed,Actaeon’s
arms grew strong, stablewith
a bow. But Chiron’s legsremembered,
like deer or sable,twitch
and danger, a reflextriggered
when he held a bowwhich
Actaeon could not affect.How
could Actaeon not know,how
could Chiron not suspecthis
wedded body, man to colt,would
betray his conscious mind,the
hunted, galloping part revolt?Actaeon,
deep-forested, hunting hind,came
across a bathing goddess.While
Artemis looked away,Actaeon
could sense nothing amiss:his
legs, his whole, bid him staywhere
Chiron’s might have felt the nagof
instinct. Nude Artemis,for
his stare, made Actaeon a stag,his
tongue mute to reminisce,his
new hind legs tense for flight.He
sensed what Chiron never taughtas
he slipped into the Parnithian nighton
slender calves too easily caught.